“Just one more cast and we will go.” Dad said, as nightfall neared. He knew his four-year-old daughter was tired. We had both witnessed a long day at the lake with little to no excitement. The crisp early spring winds that blew across the lakeshore’s grassy knoll combined with the evening’s vibrant sunset of yellow and purple hues and each had proven to be more exciting than the purpose of the trip — enticing a northern pike to briefly visit us on the bank. It was late March 1985 in Southern Ohio and the fish were rather slow to awaken from their annual state of sluggishness. Dad and I understood their reasoning, since the harsh winter had also left us slower than usual in rekindling our love for the outdoors.

Retired because of medical reasons, my father’s “job” became teaching his only child the finer characteristics of life, including everything that nature had to offer. Dad was a connoisseur of outdoor living; from birth, I was raised around the outdoors. I built sandcastles; I waded across rivers to remote islands, where my imagination led me to dream of buried treasures; I climbed rocks and built campfires; but most importantly – to Dad, at least – I fished. From the time I could talk, I easily chose a good or bad day’s fishing over a day of playing with dolls or hosting tea parties, even if my youthfulness and short attention span quickly led me to exhaustion.

As half past seven o’clock approached, it was looking more and more like the entire fishing day would be for nothing. That day, we had been fishing the lake for the better part of eight hours. With our homemade ham and cheese sandwiches devoured, and the last of our soft drinks ingested, Dad and I were both about to concede that our outing had accomplished nothing more than father-daughter quality time. Then, the little red and white bobber attached to my line went underwater.

“Jerk!” Dad exclaimed, noting the missing bobber and bending fishing pole, a good fifteen seconds before my weary eyes could focus. As asked, I gave a hefty heave on the pole – as hefty a heave as a four year old with immature muscles could. Then, the fight began. The fish was determined to stay underwater and I was determined to bring him ashore. Many times, during my back-and-forth, give-and-take battle with my captured prey, Dad offered to take the fishing pole from me.

Throughout the fight, I kept saying, “I can land it; I can land it.” I was determined, but in no time, the pain and fatigue running through my tiny muscles got the better of me. I handed the pole to my Dad, who brought my prize – a beautiful northern pike – to shore, nearly a half an hour after I had hooked it.

With my muscles somewhat rejuvenated, I held the pole while Dad took the hook from the fish’s mouth. I, then, watched as he released my catch to its home in the lake. It was the perfect ending to a perfect day. Dad and I spent quality time together and I learned a valuable lesson that good things come to those who wait!

For the next week, my twenty-two inch northern pike was the main topic of discussion among our friends and neighbors in Jackson, Ohio. In each of the stories, I soon declared the fish was twenty-two pounds, instead of its much smaller size. Of course, I blamed my confusion on being young and not knowing the difference between inches and pounds; Dad always said I was a true fisherman, prone to lying about her catch! You can be the judge!

Over the years, Dad and I continued our fishing expeditions. Together, we fished our favorite freshwater lakes and rivers in Ohio. Later, we found much happiness in fishing the salt waters of the Gulf of Mexico from the Galveston Fishing Pier on Texas’s upper coastline. Through it all, Dad proudly stood by my side. He was there– in Ohio –when I caught twenty large carp in one day and here—in Texas–when I caught a tournament-sized gafftop catfish. Yet, over the years and our fishing expeditions, Dad’s health was also declining.

One day in May 2003, Dad and I awakened early – as we usually did on fishing days – and headed from our Texas City home to the fishing pier in Galveston. Little did I know then that something would be different about that day. We arrived to the coast at 6:45, that morning, to begin our fishing day at seven. The Gulf was at low tide and the water was a beautiful shade of green. The conditions were perfect for anglers using live bait, but not for the style of fishing that Dad and I always enjoyed. Nearly four hours after arriving on the pier, the late springtime heat began to wreak havoc on our ability to breathe. Dad was tiring and I could sense it.

“Just one more cast and then, we’ll go?” I asked, as I glanced in Dad’s direction. He nodded in agreement. With our decision noted and a piece of freshly cut white squid dangling from the hook, the line was cast to sea for the final time. Nearly fifteen minutes passed and it looked like the morning of fishing would be just as one memorable March day had been, nearly twenty years earlier – a good day for father and daughter bonding, but not for much else. Then, I glanced toward the railing of the pier and noticed the fishing pole was bent double.

“Jerk!” I yelled to Dad. He grabbed the pole, gave a hefty heave, and the fight began. Dad was locked in a battle of wills with a stubborn blacktip shark; however, just as I had been, 18 years earlier, Dad was tiring of the fight. “Do you want me to land it?” I asked. Without hesitation, Dad handed me the pole and took a seat on one of the pier’s faded red wooden benches. After a clash, I landed Dad’s four foot shark, nearly a half an hour after he had hooked it. Then, Dad–somewhat rejuvenated–helped me release the shark to sea again. Soon afterward, he suggested that we call it a day. I did not know it, at the time, but that was our last fishing outing. After that day, Dad’s health progressively worsened and soon, he could not physically go fishing any longer.

My father passed away on June 22, 2008, but the lessons he taught me about life and the memories I have of our fishing trips will never fade from my mind or my heart. I am grateful for the days we shared and for the lessons he taught me. He not only taught me about life, but about love, family and the beautiful excitement surrounding us in nature, each and every day. Thanks, Dad!

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